Atonement
by Indigo2831
Summary: After betraying Heaven, Dean must atone. But how do you punish a man who has literally gone to Hell and back? Easy, torture Sam. Tag to 4.22. Double-shot. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I didn't want to write a tag to episode 4.22, but this idea screamed to be written. I'm not enitrely sure how it will end, but the next part will be up shortly. Please let me know what you think, love it or hate it.

* * *

The menacing white light in the convent was unearthly bright, and as it grew stronger and more vivid, there was a maddening drone beneath it, quite at first, but it rapidly swelled to a sonic screech that rattled Dean's teeth and catapulted a dazed Sam to act. Dean clawed at his brother's collar as the light sparking from the floor filled spread out, a reverse shadow of brilliant apocalyptic gloom. Dean pulled until Sam was running out of the vestibule and down the stone corridors. The ground began to shake and roll, rocks pouring down like destructive rain. Sam slowed down, so he could concentrate as he lifted his right hand towards his brother's retreating form, used the last of his demonic strength and pulled from that dark place inside of him. The pain in his head was excruciating and as he stopped completely, and focused on the telekinetic push. Dean's form lifted slightly, the tips of his toes scuffing over the floor. If the end of the world wasn't mere seconds away, it would have been the funniest sight he'd ever seen: his brother hovering in the air, feet flailing for purchase. Encouraged and determined, Sam strained harder, tendons taut, face red. With wide eyes, Dean glanced back as he bodily flew out the door of the convent and into the steps below. Sam stumbled, as he felt his skull crack and splinter like the shell of an egg. He heard Dean's voice around the rumbling and shattering of century's old rock, and he stumbled forward, as the white-hot heat of Lucifer himself licked at his back, hotter than fire but colder than ice. Sam's heart pumped, adrenaline and terror pushing him forward as the humming became a primitive scream of freedom, and the white light breathed and laughed and sang.

Just as Sam passed through the threshold of the church, just before could taste fresh, earthly air, there was a blasphemous explosion and the world fell away.

Hell, Sam supposed, was a Jupiter red sky, and scalding wind that cut the skin.

Hell was the inexplicable pain in your chest and a voice that wasn't your own, laughing manically.

Hell was the metal chain that wrapped itself around your wrists, dragging you into a factory made of iron and steel and blades, stringing you up until your feet barely touched the ground and your shoulders literally popped from the weight of your own body.

Hell was not knowing if your brother, or anyone else, was alive, but knowing their deaths were your fault.

**

Dean knew Hell, and wherever he was, this wasn't it. He felt whole and warm and clean. He wasn't howling with pain or shuttering as his own soul was flayed away. Dean blinked, eyes fluttering as he once again was met with white light. But this illumination was radiant and good, and sparkled like glitter. He was floating, arms and legs wafting like he was in an invisible pool, treading water. He wasn't tired and felt no pain. Dean could only see white and prisms of color as he tried to figure out where he was. For a moment, he hoped he was dreaming and Castiel's stoic face would appear to ominously deliver the biggest "SIKE" in history, but then he heard footsteps, purposeful and measured. The echoed in the cavern and soon, he could hear the squeaking of leather and the echo of footprints. Zachariah emerged as the light parted and shimmered behind him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled smugly at Dean.

Dean dubiously wondered if this undefined mass of radiance was Heaven. "Where's St. Peter, the pearly gates?" Dean asked, his voice echoing off unseen walls.

Zachariah rolled his eyes. "You're not dead, Dean."

Dean flashed with disappointment, but recovered quickly. He was sick of carrying the fate of the world. "I've died a few times now. I'm not THAT slow on the uptake, Chuckles. Besides, Heaven just can't be a giant marshmallow. I mean, there are rides at Disneyland that are funner."

"Heaven is what you make it, Dean. But you may never see it."

"Color me surprised," Dean deanpanned.

The archangel laughed and pointed at Dean from his undefined perch. "You may be uncouth, disobedient little puppy, but you are funny."

"Glad to keep you entertained, Chuckles. If you don't mind," Dean gestured with his arms that rippled slowly. "I'd some, you know, gravity."

"I'm sorry, I'm a terrible host," Zachariah said.

There was no flutter of hands or significant movement, but suddenly Dean was moving without his control and drifted to sit in a soft black armchair that was painfully comfortable.

"Sam? Where is he?" Dean asked with a cautious slant of his head as he experimentally moved his limbs. There was no twinge or pain or drop of blood. They weren't even stiff.

"Oh, we'll get to that in a minute. First, I have to congratulate you. Bang up job you did stopping Lucifer's rising. All that talk about the power of humanity, I almost believed you could do it. Guess you're no David." He sneered.

"Left my slingshot in my other pants," Dean scowled and crossed his arms. "If you angels weren't sitting in your big white rooms with your wings up your ass just letting Lilith break the seals all willy nilly, he never would have risen in the first place! Now where is my brother?!"

"Not fair!" Zachariah stuck out his tongue with all the petulance of a five-year old. "You started it!" He sat down in a matching chair that appeared seamlessly from the nothingness around them. "That wasn't our plan, Dean. I already explained to you why he had to rise again, and you just went off half-cocked to try to save the landfill called earth. Disobeying Heaven is NOT something the company rewards," he said, his eyes flashing with darkness. "So, Deano, it's time for you to atone. And I'm sorry, kiddo, but I don't think you're gonna like it much."

Dean leaned forward, snarling at the angel. "I hate to break it to you, Roma Downey, but I've been to Hell and back, and there's nothing you can throw at me that I haven't already suffered. So you can bring your knives or your ball-gags or whatever you do, but it won't do a bit of difference. I'm not sorry."

Zachariah clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder winningly. "We don't torture people, Dean, this is Heaven after all. Well, it's an embassy of sorts." Zachariah amended. "As for teaching you a lesson, I think I'll give it the old college try. But you just hang tight while I go find my favorite ball-gag and get my game face on." He stood up. And the chairs disappeared. "It might take awhile, so hang tight."

And Dean was ebbing again, floating lightly in a place with no windows or walls, colors or sounds. His heart began to beat wildly and his mind whirled with thoughts of Sam and the world they'd left behind. He had no power, no control, no distraction, and worst of all, no gun. Dean started to panic.

**

Sam was burned out of his delirium, throat sizzling un unseen acid. The chains he was suspended by clinched and snapped taut. His mouth was pried open, and in the undulating darkness, he saw the sinister streak of demon black funneling into his mouth. It was like drinking pure cyanide, acid liquefying his esophagus. He gagged and retched, choking on pure evil as the tattoo on his chest prevented it from entering him and taking over completely. The mist surrendered, rolling back and away. Sam coughed and gurgled, spitting and hacking on residual evil. His instincts screamed at him to escape, to find Dean, but he was hanging, body swaying over the ground, vulnerable and weak. He could feel the muscles in his arms quivering; the chains that were knotted around his wrists digging into the flesh; the bones in his shoulders and elbows slipping and seperating from the weight. He panted in the darkness that hummed a demonic red, saliva dripping down his chin. The only sounds he heard was the steady drip of his own blood seeping from a deep gash in his thigh. The limb itself sparked with fiery pain that made him grit his teeth and shift his weight entirely to his left leg. He was dirty and terrified, wondering where Dean was, if he was alive. If his older brother even had a world to live in.

Sam felt hundreds of unhuman eyes on him, and he licked his lips and knew the shadows and the eerie black mist that smothered the light were disembodied demons, watching him, ghosting over his skin and face like a nefarious prayer. He wanted to pass out, but the adrenaline of the unknown kept his mercilessly aware of everything from the mounting thirst in his throat to his left shoulder that was slowly and agonizingly slipping out of the socket to the name on this lips that he mumbled over and over. And because of that, he tried to fight. His hands gripped the chain that held him and he took in a few steadying breaths and closed his eyes and concentrated on the chain that held him. He pushed himself up on the tip of his toes, tightening his muscles. The controlled movement caused agony to spark and pulse through his body, but Sam was doggedly focused. If demon blood did anything for him, it made Sam unimaginably strong-minded. The pain it caused was a not-so distant hum all over his body, but Sam needed to freedom, if only to see what he'd done to the world. The young Winchester used the tips of his fingers to examine his manacles, fingers cursorily feeling the length of the chains, searching for the lock or the hook that held him. If he knew was it was, he could free himself.

But he was thinking in the concrete terms of earth. He'd only realized that as his fingertips brushed over a smoothed chain tethered both of his wrists before spiraling upwards into nothing. There was no lock, no hook, no end to the chains that bound him. It was one solid piece, soddered together, branding him in steel.

A white-hot pulse dashed across his back, rocking the chain, crackling like thunder. Sam was breathless from it, mouth opened, lungs working for air as his body shutdown from the intensity of pain. It lashed out again, cleaving away the skin. Sam gripped the chain, knees buckling as he was whipped. Refusing to scream, Sam rocked and writhed, arched and hissed, waiting until he passed out, died, and it all started again. His entire body was burning with the invisible flares of black misery. He counted the cracks against his back and nearly laughed with relief when the lancing whips became controlled, measured blows to his thighs and calves. He saw a blurred silhoutte, free-formed and alien. It looked at him with empty eyes and a vicious smile.

"I know I'm being punished," Sam whispered, raw and weak, braced against pain. "Gimme all you got," he barked in a voice that was not unlike his brother's.

The figure leaned forward, hand sinking through his skin and around his heart, squeezing and squishing until his vision greyed and his eyes bulged and his blood streaked with evil. There was a slither inside his head, a litany of voices bundled into one. And it was then, as he heard what it said, that Sam scream, raw and loud.

**

Dean was nauseous and twitching from days without sleep or movement or sound. He was crying a bit too, tears falling down his chin before float off to join in the mind-searing shimmer of what could only be purgatory. His psyche was the scariest place he knew of, and it had been rattling perpetually. Grateful his experience on long stakeouts in silence, he knew when to shutdown. He mumbled under his breath, first Metallica songs, how to make silver bullets, all the words he could remember his mother saying, the rules of hunting, then it was just a name, a one-word prayer that he'd said his entire life, that pulled him back from stab wounds and infections and fevers and grief. Sam. Sam. Sam.

He could see him too, without concentrating too hard: Sammy as a baby, fat and happy, laughing with their mother. Sam as a child with a too big backpack and dark blue eyes. Sam as a spidery-limbed teenager, all angsty sighs and stupefying intelligence. Sam's sour face as Dean gave him his first shot of alcohol as they camped in Bobby's junkyard. Sam, wherever he was, was still his sanity.

"Aww, I hate to interrupt your walk down Winchester Lane , but I believe you owe me some atonement, bucko." Zachariah said jauntily.

Dean began to sink down and he lifted his left hand, middle finger extended.

The angel exploded into laughter. "I thought you'd lose your mind without any leather or machetes or threats to make. I'm impressed, you are a hard nut to crack, Winchester."

Dean suppressed a groan as he was once again seated in the buttery soft leather armchair. He rolled his neck and wiggled his toes. He blinked and there was an antique television in front of him, resting on an ornate wooden table. Zachariah plopped down in the chair next to him, crunching on a bowl of buttery popcorn. Dean gawked at the angel, his stomach rumbling with hunger. "Chuckles, you better watch those love handles."

"I know, I know," Zachariah agreed, mouth full. "I've been working out, but this, my friend, this will be worth an extra pound or two." He produced a remote out from nothing. "This movie is a fantastic drama filled with laughter and tears. And, Mr. My-Dog-Ate-My-Homework, pay attention, because I will expect a detailed report after the screening."

"Don't get your hopes up, Teach, I was terrible at English…too busy oogling the girls. Great at detention, though," Dean muttered as Zachariah flipped on the television. "Some things never change, I guess."

"You say detention; I say penance for betraying Heaven. Tomayto, tomahto."

The screen was fuzzy black with snow, but soon focused in a dark warehouse. The color was pristine and the camera began to focus in, on a blurry figure in the middle of the frame. Dean's stomach dropped. He gripped the sides of the chair, fingers cutting into the leather. He squinted, then cursed at the mop of brown hair.

"You see, Dean, you were right. You've taken and survived everything that's been thrown at you, except, well, those snarly little hellhounds, but you got an A for effort on that one," Zachariah said, patting Dean's shoulder. He leaned forward to menace in Dear's ear, "So, the only way we could truly make you sorry was to make your brother _atone_."

His head snapped up, eyes darkening, stomach fluttering with undeniable fear. "What? No! NO!" Dean's eyes reflexively filled with tears as he watched Sam, bloody and delirious, and bound in chains. His lips moved almost imperceptibly and his head lulled. He whimpered and shook from what had to be excruciating pain. "You said you didn't torture in Heaven." Dean hollered. "Stop! Let him go!"

Zachariah's eyes flashed. "He's not in Heaven. We picked up a practice from your kind, and out-sourced. Demons got 'em now."

He tore his eyes away and smoldering at the angel. "Let him go, Zachariah! NOW! He did what you wanted him to do, he killed Lilith. Do whatever you want to me, but please, let him go!"

"Oh, you big quitter, it's only beena few seconds. Keep watching, it'll get better."

Bloodshot green eyes turned back to the screen as Sam passed out, head dropping forward, knees bueckling. The telltale swirl of demons materialized into an ebbing form of a man and he plunged his hand into Sam's chest. His brother's gurgling screams sent Dean into a realm that was even worse than his time in Hell. Because while he was there, he was fortified by the fact that Sam wasn't. It was how he held on for thirty years of indescribable torture. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling the scorching agony that caused Sam's eyes to roll back until they were nothing but milky white and his teeth to chatter.

In pitiful rebellion, Dean closed his eyes and refused to watch. He heard Zachariah's impatient sigh, and Dean sucked in a shocked breath when he once again lost control. The archangel bound him with that infuriating magic, rending his body so rigid, he couldn't blink or take a deep breath. He watched his brother writhe and whimper, pass out only to be carted back to consciousness by gruesome supernatural pain. And not being able to vocalize or even externally made it all the harder to take internally. His muscles were locked and his throat burned with bile that pooled in his throat. He choked on his own vomit, his brother's pain and his own glaring failure.

**

He hung there for eternities, spine stretching painfully, body weakened, eyes fluttering. But they wouldn't let sleep. Whenever his vision grayed and his head lulled with impending unconsciousness, Sam was jolted awake by an electric shock behind his eyes or a ghostly hand squeezing his heart or tugging on his organs. He would fly awake, tremoring or gagging from the visceral pain that gnawed so deep, it branded his soul. He knew what was happening, knew what they were doing and knew why. They shrieked with delight when shadows lashed out, striking him with their iron limbs, whipping him with linked chains, slapping him with hand made of knives.

All he could do is zone out and try to focus, hang on until he knew Dean wasn't back here, as soon as that happened, he could break, shatter into molecules that made up the biting wind. So he mumbled the name over and over. It was his Buddhist chant. It was his life-saving mantra. It was his water, his nourishment. Dean. Dean. Dean.

**

He was forced to watch for hours, imprisoned in his own flesh and bone. A gleeful Zachariah changed the channel on the old television set, and he saw Sam with a gun in his mouth, sitting over his mangled corpse; Sam dragging himself out of a burning house, bloody and broken on a hunt alone; Sam, drunk and raw wirh grief, being seduced by Ruby, her eyes flashing beetle black as Sam kissed her neck; Sam willingly drinking her blood.

Just as quickly as the paralysis descended, it lifted. Leaving Dean to tumble out of the chair, clutching his stomach, tearing at his hair. He was hysterical, nerves frayed like the ends of a raveled rope.

He whirled around, shaking, as he glared at Zachariah sat in his chair munching on popcorn. "I'm atoned, okay. I should have listened. I get it. Let my brother go."

"Nope," the angel sat back and licked the butter off his fingers.

"Please…you're killing him."

He waved him off. "Don't be so dramatic."

Dean risked a glance back at the screen. He had to see if Sam was alive, but he felt gutted as he watched him sway lifelessly, legs too tired to hold him up. The camera was now far way, blurring Sam's face, and the sound that had echoed throughout the space was suddenly gone. He couldn't see or hear if Sam was breathing, only that he was painted in his own blood. Dean gripped the sides of the television, clawing at the knobs. "Please, please, please."

"Look at that, you do have manners."

"How long has it been?" Dean asked, desperate. "How long as he been like that?"

"The standard sentence for a crime of this magnitude," Zachariah beamed. And said a word that wasn't English nor earthly. He rolled his eyes at Dean's bewilderment. "Three days, give or take. It doesn't convert exactly."

"Oh my…" Three minutes without air. Three days without water…

"God?" Zachariah supplied. "Sorry, he's mine."

Dean went ballastic, unleashing all of the venom he could muster onto the angel. In less than a second, he had his hand s around the angels throat, squeezing with wonderful, life-ending pressure. "And Sam is MINE. Let him go." He seethed.

Zachariah seemed bored by his violence. Dean waited, hoped for his face to darken with the cherry-hue or his eyes to bug out from strangulation, but he wasn't human. And beings—human or otherwise—tended to take attempts to end their lives pretty badly. With all of the strength Dean had in him, he let the angel go and even brushed the wrinkles out of his suit jacket.

Zachariah smile smugly, eyes glinting with victory. "Have you learned your lesson, Dean?"

"Yes! I'll write it in my own blood if I have to, Zachariah." He dropped his gaze downward submissively.

He crossed his arms and stood like a father scolding his son. "How do I know you're serious?"

Dean felt himself darken, the feral pitbull within him growl to the surface, but he reigned it in as much as he could, and played the last hand he had. "You still need me to kill Lucifer. And I won't do it without him. I don't care if the whole world burns up around me, I won't do it!" Dean raged.

"Spitfire! Gumption!" He yelled with a theatatrical flurry of jazz hands before his face molded into snarling disgust and flashed with hatred. "The fact that you, Heaven's warrior, stand by your demonic vampire of a brother is confounding."

Defiant and miltant, Dean stood up, feet firmly planted and all fear gone. He was the pawn in a gigantic war between Heaven and Hell and all he was asking for was his brother's life, and he would not be denied. "The fact that THIS is heaven is a little unsettling to me too, but I've dealt," he snarled. "And if you weren't holed up in your marshmellow tower gettin' your kicks watching the world END, you would've seen that my brother used his mojo to save my LIFE AKA your shot at killing Lucifer! I want my brother free, and I'm done waiting!"

Zachariah paused, tapping his fingers again his chin.

"My brother, Zachariah."

Dean barely noticed the angel roll his eyes before he was punted back into a world with visible walls and gravity and psychics that made sense. He was first aware of the weight of his body, the heft of his limp arms and head was made even heavy by a full-bodied throb of pain and the early pull of gravity. But there was a comforting smell—gun powder and sun-warmed vinyl—that had followed him around his entire life, following by the steady rocking and the luxurious rumble of his Impala.

"Dean?"

He felt the car shudder unevenly over the shoulder of the road and he was squinting at Bobby's haggard face, backlit by the light of the day.

Bobby placed a weathered hand on Dean's face, cupping his chin. "You with me, boy?"

Dean nodded, weak. "We gotta get to Sam," he croaked from his slumped position in the back seat.

Bobby's eyes widened with shock. "I'm workin' on it. First, I had to make sure you didn't kick the bucket."

Dean sat up and gazed out of the dusty windows of the Impala. The sun shined and there wasn't a cloud in the blue, blue sky. It was a beautiful day.

"When you Houdini-ed out of my house, I started putting out feelers with other hunters. After, well, ya know, it didn't take long to find you."

"Where are we?"

"New Jersey. You were out cold in a shed few miles from where the convent…used to be," Bobby supplied, handing him a bottle of water. "You were able to get into a clutch of trees, so no one found ya right away," he explained quickly. "I've been followin' omens to try to track down Sam. Think some demons got him. What the hell happened?"

Dean drank greedily and finally stopped when he needed air. His head pounded in the glinting sun, there was blood crusted in his right ear and his left leg was scraped and swollen. "_Hell _happened," he said, scanning the pastures and farmlands. "We have to find Sam, Bobby. Now."

He climbed out of the back seat and hobbled behind the wheel, an image of a factory pressed to the front of his brain. It was no place he'd even seen or ever been, but somehow, he knew where he was.

**

Dean bolted into the abandoned warehouse, heedless of Bobby's warnings, and complete unarmed, save for the exorcisms he spouted in-between screaming for Sam. He heard the scurrying of rats as he plummeted into the darkness. He was aware of nothing, but the massive empty space that didn't contain his brother. He kicked down rusted doors and crawled through eroding walls through muck and cobwebs and grime, until he reached a cavernous room where the ceiling was threaded with chains, the walls bedazzled in graffiti, the floor covered in dirt. Dean literally felt his heart stop as he laid eyes on Sam, hanging from chains just as he was in the television. He'd hoped it had just been a bit of angel trickery, but no, it was the will of Heaven.

And suddenly the psychics and planes of earth that had been so comforting were torturous, because Dean could only move so fast no matter how hard he pumped his arms and kicked his feet. Finally, he was inches away from his brother and Dean whimpered piteously. He'd seen Sam's corpse before, laid out on that dirty mattress in Cold Oak, and he looked better then. His skin was dusky gray, thin and brittle. And he seemed impossibly gaunt, the skin of his cheeks stretched over the bones of his face. His shirt had gone, his body was slicked with sweat, soiled with blood, mottled with bruises. Even though Sam didn't seem to be breathing, Dean lifted a shaking hand to his throat, pressing for a pulse. He needed one there, but everything he'd suffered and learned knew it wouldn't be. It had been too long.

Sam heaved a rattling, hitching breath. Before Dean could register movement, he was wrapped around Sam's torso, lifting up to release the pressure from his arms. He hollered for Bobby as he blindly reached to unchain him. His fingers didn't feel any discernable lock or hook. The entire length of the chain was continuous.

Dean Winchester bit his lip, digging in, and lifted until he heard the inexplicable jingle of chains and felt Sam's bound hands limply fall, thudding against his back. He staggered beneath his brother's weight, knees buckling as he struggled with his body. Stubbornly, he refused to fall. "We can do this, Sammy. Me and you."

He nudged Sam's bound arms over his head until the threaded around his neck. He cautiously shifted his body beneath Sam's until his head was resting on his shoulder. Sam was nearly four inches taller than Dean, and he was forced to backpedal, dragging Sam's feet behind him. Somehow, he balanced all two hundred and thirty pounds of Sam as he traipsed the yards out of the enormous factory and into the sun. He walked forward, propelled by adrenaline and the never-ending desire to keep his brother alive. It was a familiar feeling but one that had never been as explicit and unyielding as he was now.

Dean was sweating, knees and back aching, by the time he found Bobby, but he kept going, until he reached the car. Bobby ran ahead, pushing back the seats and helping Dean angle Sam into the backseat. Once they were both inside, Bobby sped down the highways, searching for a place to hole up. The older Winchester clutched his brother to his chest, hand over his heart that beat too fast under his palm. Sam's dry, cracked lips were still moving as they had with Zachariah and Dean leaned forward trying to hear was he was muttering. He finally broke when he heard it, felt Sam's breath on his ear as he intoned, "Dean, Dean, Dean."

"I'm here, Sammy. I'm right here," he said brokenly. "You did a good job getting me out. Who would have thought that juice of yours was a good thing, huh?"

Dean rubbed Sam's cheek, ignoring the blood that trickled down his legs. For no reason at all, Sam reared against him, arching and gasping. His entire body was as taut as a guitar string. Dean closed his eyes, holding Sam through it, lifting him up, and pulling him in tight, like he did when Sam was a child, scared of the monsters in the darkness. "It's okay, Sammy. It's okay."

Sam's body sagged, deathly still for the longest moment of Dean's life before his eyes slid open, and he stared dumbly at Dean's face. Dean immediately snatched the bottle of water Bobby had given him, and gently propped Sam up, coaxing him to drink. He dribbled a bit in his mouth, but Sam only sputtered and let it fall down his chin. "Swallow, Sammy, please."

"Here!" Bobby barked, handing Dean a cooler. Dean had forgotten he was there.

The cooler was filled with ice made from holy water. Dean grabbed a tiny piece with his fingers and rubbed it over Sam's lips. He smiled tearfully when Sam's swollen tongue threaded through his teeth, taking the piece. Dean fed him more, as much as Sam would take.

Sam's eyes locked on Dean's, and they were dulled with surrender, with indifference—something Dean had never seen before. He smiled down at his brother, unable to comprehend anything but this moment and pulling Sam with him into the next. "I got you, little brother. I got you."

**

Sam knew the moment he'd escaped Hell. The abyss, built on torture and fortified in steel, crumbled into one with achingly bright sunshine, and colors that dripped and gleamed like jewels. Light glinted off Dean's amulet, kaleidoscoping before him. His heartbeat thumped pleasantly against this cheek, strong and hard, just like Dean. He shifted, closing his fingers around his thread-bare tee-shirt, anchoring himself to the only thing he believed in. Blanketed by the sun of the day, the power of the Impala, and his arms of his brother, Sam Winchester let go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry it took so long for me to post the last part of this story. I struggled so much with the ending, and trying not to write in spoilers for the upcoming season (Can't wait!!!!). Don't worry, there are none. Then, technical difficulties with delayed things even more. I hope this ending works. Let me know what you think.

* * *

They couldn't take Sam to a hospital, not with his eyes flickering demon black and car rattling with more than just windshear. They had no choice but to hole up in a motel and try to get Sam through it. Dean nursed Sam through the trip, triaging what he could, holding him through the tremulous pain.

Bobby had found a motel that rented cabins just outside of Pennsylvania, and together, they got Sam inside the meager cabin with two big beds, a small kitchenette and a bathroom.

Dean knelt on the bed, wiping Sam down with a cool cloth, humming through pressed lips. He washed off the dirt and blood, the grime of evil as Sam slept, wracking by sporadic tremors. The wounds had been cleaned and bandaged, the swelling limbs were being methodically iced, and Bobby had even performed a roadside exorcism just to cover the bases. But no amount of latin would protect Sam from his internal demons over what he had done or what was done to him.

Sam's prideful determination to save the world did the exact opposite, and although Dean numbly wondered how the fallout would unspool, he couldn't muster up a shred of hostility because Sam was dying.

Dean knew it with every fiber of his being. He knew it as sure as he knew that a ten-year-old Sammy would tower well over six feet. He knew it like he knew the all of Sam's infinite expressions and smiles and grimaces. The welts on his back, his jaggedly torn wrists, the broken rib, the swollen, dislocated shoulders, and the dehydration were the worst of it—Sam had survived much worse—but he was getting weaker, fevering raging through him, pain savaging him.

Sam was a warrior as he had been raised to be, and getting injured was one of the only guarantees a hunter had. He'd locked eyes with Dean, one hand gripping the sheets, fighting weakness and infection just as hard as monsters and spirits.

This wasn't happening now. And Dean was helpless.

Bobby sat down at Sam's side, fingers on his wrist. "He's a little roughed up," Bobby said softly, "but he's gonna be fine." It was the fifth time he'd said that in an hour.

Dean twitched in the quiet, restless and terrified. "Yeah, of course," he dubiously agreed.

Bobby didn't know about Ruby or the double-cross and he didn't have the words or the strength to tell him what Sam had done to himself in the process. He hadn't even processed it. Instead, he shooed Bobby into the other bed and fussed over his Sam's still form. Sam was unconscious, but not at rest, face awash with residual pain, eyelids fluttering like they did when he had nightmares. Dean rubbed his hands on his jeans, and cracked his knuckles before he gently placed his hand on his swollen shoulders, then feathered his fingers through his hair. Sam's eyes slid open, wet and dark blue framed by streaks of red.

Dean managed a smile. "Hey, Sammy. You're safe now."

Sam simply stared, lifelessly.

"They were punishing you…because of me. I saw…what they were doing to do, but you survived it, man. They won't hurt you anymore."

A spasm rippled down Sam's entire body. He grunted against the involuntary movement, tears seeping out of his eyes as he closed them. His Adam's apple bobbed as he sharply inhale, reacting to pain. Sam lifted his swollen, discolored arm, waving Dean over with a subtle flutter of bloated fingers. Once Dean close, Sam fisted his shirt, reeling him in until Dean was perched over him, lips pressed to his ear. The voice was a barely discernable whisper, but was saturated with unadulterated horror. "They weren't punishin'….they were thankin' me…for freein' _him_."

Dean's legs disappeared beneath him, cut down by Sam's confession, the realization that the world was now forever changed and it was a direct result of their actions, their passions. He lowered himself down until his knees slammed against the floor. He rubbed Sam's hot cheeks with his cold hands, hoping to freeze away the fever, absorb the weakness. "I don't care what they said, Sammy. You saved my life, and we can finish this. Together." Sam's head lulled on the pillow, and picked up the cup of crushed, icy water and the spoon. "I need you to fight, to get better, okay?" He tapped Sam's lips, waiting for him to open. He merely turned his head away.

Sam looked to his brother with a loaded, heavy glance. "I'm tired, Dean." He panted.

Dean ignored the defeat glinting in his eyes, the black despair in his stomach, and clung to the steely determination that had kept his brother breathing for twenty-seven tumultuous years.

"You just need some water, good drugs, maybe a sponge bath by a naughty nurse, and you'll be good as new." Knowing Sam was too weak to stop him, Dean pushed himself up onto the bed, sweeping Sam's head up with one hand. Gently, he squeezed his cheeks, and force-fed him the ice chips. If Sam couldn't fight, Dean would fight for him.

**

Ten hours gone, and Sam's color had improved, but his lucidity was worsening. He mumbled nonsense, eyes tracking demons and monsters that Dean couldn't see. He'd pushed over the curtains, and sat by the bed, watching Sam stare listlessly at the silver sky and cobblestone clouds. His fingers curled in Sam's hair, tracing patterns, sigils of protection and hope. Dean lifted his slacken head as Sam pointed in the corner at nothing.

"What, Sam?" he asked intently.

His little brother licked his lips, shaking constantly now. "Jess."

"What's she doing?"

"…burnin'…" was the horrified whisper.

With gruff determination, Dean followed Sam's haunted gaze and parked himself directly in front of it, hopefully cutting off Sam's hallucination. He caught Sam's wildly unfocused eyes and tried to hold them on his. Denying the ghosts only agitate Sam more, distraction was his best option. "Tell me something about her, something I don't know. Keep it clean, though, I know how you like to over-share."

Sam exhaled, sharply and painfully, his breathing was labored and dragging, but he followed through. "She…took me home…for Thanksgivin'…I told 'er…I loved her…when she was stuffin' the turkey. No make-up…and sweats…she was so…beautiful."

"Hands up a turkey's ass, huh?" Dean laughed mirthlessly. "That's a classic, Romeo."

"Her mom…was ri' there. Took pics." Sam almost smiled; Dean saw the glint in his eyes. And that fueled him more than sleep or water or food. "Turkey was nasty…though. Never told 'er."

Dean laughed wholeheartedly. "That's why you've never told me that story. I didn't know there was photographic proof of how emo you are."

The meager light was snuffed out of his face, leaving him once again pale and drawn beneath the bruises. "Dean…"

"Shuttup, Sam."

"…please…jus' lemme explain…"

"I'm really not up to hearing last rites. Save your breathe and tell me later."

"…I didn't know…that killing Lil…"

Dean shushed him with a loving glare. "I know, Sammy," he whispered. "Right now, I just need you to focus all that girly energy on getting better. We can work it all out, but you have to be alive to do it."

Sam's eyes closed, "…you need to know…" he mumbled, fingers digging lightly at Dean's shirt as he tried stave off sleep, "blood…on my hands…" he whispered before he head lolled, eyes fluttered closed.

Dean sighed when his body loosened with sleep. His fever was hot and holding, and he was backsliding. Bobby was out securing their tiny cabin, and looking for a cleansing spell he was certain would help Sam. He climbed into bed. Gingerly, he placed a pillow in his lap, shifted Sam he was propped up on the pillow on his side. The wounds stripping his back were an angry crimson slathered in antibacterial cream, but they were no longer weeping or oozing. One tiny battle he didn't have to fight.

With a hand on Sam's chest, he braced himself against the headboard, bone-tired but unable to sleep. He closed his eyes, stilling his mind and thought about healing. He envisioned all of his energy and strength and love funneling down through his arm and into his brother. Just as he was about to laugh deliriously from the irony, a cryptic cold flashed through him as he felt a divine vibration in his chest. He jerked his head up, squinting at Castiel, who looked surprisingly uncrispified from his confrontation with Chuck's archangel.

"Wow, go head to head with wrath, and all you got were wrinkles in your trenchcoat." Dean clucked with more relief than spite.

"I'm afraid we have failed."

"Understatement of the _millennium_."

Castiel cocked his head at the sight of Sam, broken and wheezing, pillowed in his brother's lap. Dean had forgotten how the angel moved with such divine precision and surefooted steps. He hovered over Sam, looking faintly worried and shocked. Hesitantly, he pressed those two foreboding fingers to his forehead, downloading his misery. "He is not well." Castiel announced ominously.

Dean hacked a dry laugh. "I don't need magic fingers to know that, Cas. Seems your boss likes water-boarding just as much as McCain. They tortured him. For DAYS."

He nodded knowingly. "To make you atone. Dean, I apologize it came to this." Castiel was still and silent for a long moment, the twilight spiraling around him like a silver lining, and Dean watched as he palmed Sam's head gently, fingers disappearing into sweaty hair, and closed his eyes in focus. Sam's breaths hitched, body stiffening, but he relaxed within seconds, snuffling into the pillow. "I cannot heal him, but I have blocked his pain. Rest will help."

"Thank you," Dean said, his voice low with desperation.

Castiel turned away from him, back to Dean, hands clasped behind him, like he was waiting to be handcuffed. "Do not thank me, Dean. I fear my actions have only steered your brother closer to his foreseen goal. I cannot help him as much as I would like."

Sam's heartbeat was stronger beneath his hand, and he'd clung to whatever scraps of optimism he could find. "This is good. This is good," Dean muttered. "Can I ask you something that won't get me tossed back in Heaven's padded room?"

Castiel stood ominously at the foot of the bed, and nodded.

"Sam's…circlin' the drain. He's up against a lot here…" Dean licked his lips, and hated toying with the idea that was blossoming—the fruit of his cloying terror. "If Sam was…addicted to something, hypothetically, would he get better if he got what he was jonesin' for? Can you look in your divine crystal ball maybe?"

The face of the once impassive Castiel, but the corner of his mouth twitched and he glowered at the older Winchester, eyes glittering and dark. "The…demon blood or lack of it isn't killing him. He is changed now."

Dean shook his head, adamant. "But he's crackin' out again. He's seeing Jess and Dad and Alastair, just like before…in the panic room. It would help him survive, right?"

"I have learned," Castiel began, voice rich like honey, "that while Heaven has greatly underestimated the will of the human spirit, it can break…and it can be broken. Some burdens are too heavy to carry, Dean. Some happenings cannot be survived."

That single statement scared Dean more than the wraths of Heaven, of Hell, of Lucifer. He clutched Sam tighter, somewhat reassured by the placid expression on his face. His tired eyes flickered to the angel, electrified by the literal hell of the past years. He was nearly broken by his role in the apocalypse, and he understood shattering beneath the weight, but higher powers had intervened, wiping his memory so he could re-discover his love for the hunt and how much he needed, loved and _trusted_ Sam, despite how hardened his death had made him. Dean didn't think the soldiers of Heaven would conjure alternate realities for Sam. All he had left was Dean, and his infarmous tenacity.

"Sam hasn't wanted anything in his life, but to be normal. To go to work and have a home to at the end of his nine-to-five. That's it! Instead, he gets to grow up without a mother. With demon-blood running through this veins. With a drill saegerent for a father and a deadbeat for a brother! He goes to college and the woman he loves gets a slash-and-burn on the ceiling for her troubles. In the last year, I died while he was some pawn used by angels and demons alike, and you wonder why he's giving up." Dean raged. "Everything he ever believed in was taken from him including his faith in God and Heaven. Don't you dare stand there and talk to me about the human spirit, you black-winged sonofabitch!"

"Dean," Castiel began, still eerie kempt and steady.

He scuffed a hand over his short hair and dropped his head to focus on Sam's s sleeping face. "Just go, Cas."

Dean's head snapped up when he heard a chair scuffing the floor as he placed it next to the bed. Castiel robotically removed his trenchcoat and fold it over the back of the chair. He sat stiffly, palms flat against his thighs, back straight as an arrow. "I have learned," he rasped, "that sometimes it is better not to follow the order at hand." He met Dean's eyes, and they flickered with defiance.

Dean huffed a breath, irritated but quietly relieved that if Sam died, he'd have one decent angel by his side. "Out of all the things you could learn from me, that's what sticks?"

**

Six more hours gone, and Castiel's angelic morphine had worn off, leaving Sam drenched in agony and completely conscious. The sheets and blankets had been discarded, and Dean paced the room, unable to touch him because Sam had woken up, screaming from the pressure on his skin. Sam was on his side, clutching a pillow under his cheek. Every exhale was a wet huff of agony that made Dena's stomach clench sympathetically. His death had been a few seconds of tearing, unimaginable pain. But Sam's was deliberate and methodical, organs shutting down like that of an old man. His skin was dusky and waxy, as he was too dehydrated to sweat, and refused water. Dean brain ran through any and every supernatural option—hoo doo, black magick, witchcraft. He was ready to try them all if it kept Sam breathing.

Castiel stood in the corner, visibly stricken behind the stony features.

Dean focused on the angel. He hadn't slept in nearly two days, and felt dirty and ragged. "Cas, please. Whatever you did before, do it again!"

"It will not stop the inevitable, Dean."

"Then help me. Can you…can you get through to him? Can you talk to him?" Although Sam was awake, he was unresponsive.

"I do not…I do not think that is wise."

"You can send me back in time, spring me out of the pit, do battle with archangels, but you can't do this?" Dean snarled, desperate.

"You do no need to know what your brother is going through." Castiel resigned.

"I'm not Helen Keller here. Cas, please!"

Castiel picked up the bottles of morphine and other drugs, holding them out with child-like confusion. "You have your drugs."

Dean shook his head, ignoring the wetness and heat in his eyes. "Those will surpress his breathing. They'll kill him."

Castiel set the viles in his hand. "He is suffering, Dean."

Dean barked, pacing, "What is with people tellin' me to off my brother!"

Castiel was unaffected by Dean's disgusted outrage. "I have seen much suffering in my years, Dean. It all ends the same."

"Not this time, it doesn't. I'll figure something out," Dean announced, "I always have before."

Sam buckled, then, body snapping like a whip, toes curling, eyes rolling back. He lay, arched and gagging for a moment before he felt limp, breath leaving him like with fatal finality. Dean's head whipped towards the bed, eyes locked on Sam's chest that wasn't rising, meaning his heart didn't beat. "Sammy…" In one large step, Dean was at his brother's side.

Dumbfounded, he shook him as if he would wake up. As Sam's lips flushed a dusky grey, ebbing towards blue, Dean Winchester screamed, raw and sorrowful, carrying all of the love he had for his brother. In a blur of movements, he pushed Sam on his back, flinging the pillow aside. He tipped Sam's head back and breathed for him, two sharp, full breaths before he started compressions, ignoring the give and eventual snap-pop of his little brother's ribs as he forced his heart to beat.

The first time Dean laid eyes on Sam, he was so amazed by the confusing, pink bundle in his his mother's arms. Sam was small with a shock of dark hair and sapphire eyes that locked on Dean's as soon as they opened. At four years old, Dean fell in love with the weird creature that was impossibly alive and kinda magical. Twenty-seven years later, Dean stared into his brother's face as life drained out of it, those same eyes, lazily open but unseeing and empty like slate blue marbles. His hair was matted with blood and wet with sweat. Out of all of the ways for Sam to die, this death wasn't what any of them had pictured. He refused to give in for a second, and let his brother slip away in a rickety cabin with a guilty conscious and the scent of sulfur on his skin. Out of breath and inches away from hysterica, Dean turned to Castiel, face tight and angry and covered in tears. Sam rocked boneless beneath him as Dean thrust downwards, ignoring the snap of another rib. "Castiel. PLEASE! Sam doesn't deserve to die like this! Please, Cas, _HELP ME_." He pleaded before he pinched Sam's nose, mouth covering his brother's and infusing him with everything he had left.

**

Throughout his life, Sam relished in the mundane and decidedly normal parts of life that didn't influence life and death, didn't push the dizzying domino-effect of tragedy or triumph. He took pleasure in taking out the trash, sorting his mail, doing laundry, walking through parks, enjoying a good sandwich. So it wasn't a surprise that his heaven was a simple run on a ivory beach next to a frothy white gray ocean. The only surprise came from the fact that Sam was IN Heaven. After all he'd done, he didn't deserve it.

Sam breathed in the air that rushed against his face, cool and fresh, smelling of ocean and salt. He could hear the waves crashing on the beach. Feel the wet sand between his toes. He ran, swift with long strides, never getting winded, but feeling the tingle of adrenaline just the same. There was no end to the blanket beaches of white that sparkled in light that came from all around. There were no demons, no angels, no double-cross, no catastrophic betrayal to carry like a cross on his back.

Sam was finally free.

He ran, gliding so fast he felt like he could just life off, take flight. He knew he'd eventually find Jessica and his mother, maybe even his father. But Sam was patient, and relished in the swelling freedom of nothingness. No expectations. No lives to save. No one to let down or let die.

"You cannot run forever, Sam Winchester." Castiel's melodic voice reverberated over the rush of the ocean.

To his left, there was Castiel, matching his long-limbed sprint in a surefooted stroll. His arms were behind his back, ever-present trenchcoat gone.

"You have to make a choice," Castiel said, mysteriously.

Sam ignored him and continued running, absorbing the peace that had eluded him since the fire lifetimes ago that stole the love of his life and set him on the course to the darkness he'd fought tooth and nail to avoid.

"I choose here," Sam said, confident.

Castiel observed the heaven of his making. "Your brother was in a place like this. He did not like it as much as you. But I suppose you two are very different."

"My brother?" Sam parroted, and immediately felt guilty that he hadn't thought of him yet. "Where is Dean?"

Castiel squinted ahead. "You left him behind."

Sam grimaced, but he didn't slow down. "I'm sparing him from killing me himself."

The angel nodded in more understanding than agreement. "Dean will not be overjoyed to learn of your misguided actions, but he already knows the worst, and yet he still fights for you. He sees the good in you."

Sam scoffed as a familiar hate flared within him. He didn't think he could bring the loathing here, but Heaven was just as flawed and muddy as life. "Do you?"

Castiel placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and he skidded in the sand he could no longer see. The shifting din of the ocean ceased, and the peace he once appreciated was nothing more than disheartening, lonely quiet. His Heaven was disappearing. "I see that you fought relentlessly to achieve the right thing, and you were ready to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. Despite the outcome, your heart is good, Samuel."

"And yet the world's still gonna end, because of me."

"Not if you fight to right your wrongs," Castiel countered intensely. He stared out into the invisible waters, the wind feathering through his hair and announced, "I have a job for you, Sam Winchester."

Sam gasped, incredulous. "I'm the boy with the demon blood, Cas, remember?"

Castiel circled him, arms crossed over his chest. "Dean's purpose was not to stop the Lucifer's rising, but to kill him once he did. It is only a matter of time before the other side learns of your brother's destiny, and the hunter will become the _hunted_."

"What do you need me to do?"

"You need to protect your brother with your life. You are uniquely qualified for this position."

"… I thought using the blood was a sin."

Castiel shook his head slowly. "I am not referring to Azazel's gifts. I am referring to the love you have for him. Warriors can fight, but they must carry passion for what they are fighting for. You have no longer have faith in much but I see your faith in Dean."

"I just needed to make sure he was safe…before I could…do what he couldn't…the world safer without me. Like my dad said." Sam dropped his knees, gutted and weary after a lifetime of grief and suffering. He risked one last question, taking advantage of Castiel's uncanny honesty. "Do you think he still has faith in me?"

Castiel knelt in front of him, full of light and truth. "If he did not, I would not be here."

Sam was motionless for a long moment, not contemplating, just memorizing the place where Jessica was just over the horizon, waiting for him, all open heart and sunny spirit. He needed to remember it, so he could find it again.

"We do not have much time. I need an answer, Sam."

"He died for me," Sam stood up and regarded the angel with a strength he didn't have, strength that was coming from Dean, "I can live for him."

Inexplicably, Sam was thrashing in the ocean he couldn't see. But the once placid waves he'd heard were anything but, the water was angry and violent, dark and so cold, he felt his lungs seize up within him and his limbs prickle with icy heat—the numbness spreading in his limbs like a poison. He had no bearings as he was dashed and launched head over heels, but Sam knew Dean was waiting for him, and so he fought and swam, stroking towards his true north.

He surfaced to a battered body drenched in pain, blanketed in weakness and an unbearable pressure in his chest. Dean's face warbled and swam above him before collapsed ontop of him, face pressed against his shoulder. Dean was sputtering, crying openly with breath he didn't seem to have. Wearily, Sam patted Dean's hip, unable to lift his arms.

Dean was a blur of moment Sam couldn't follow, but feel.

Dean scooped him off the pillow, clutching Sam to him with a grip that was tender, but fierce. "I broke your ribs, Sammy. I'm sorry." He pulled back to stared in his brother's glassy eyes.

"…s'okay…set Lucifier free…"

Sam wasn't surprised when Dean launched into delerious laughter, pushing the hair off his face. "I started it…"

**

Three days after Sam Winchester died for the second time, twenty-three electric storms charged across the country, striking trees and cars and killing thirty-seven people.

Six days later, the temperature in Anarctica dropped a staggering forty degrees.

Eights days after that, no babies were born in Germany, Morocco, the state of Florida, or Greenland.

The apocalypse, Castiel explained, was not an instantaneous event, but a gradual crawl into mayhem and chaos and evil.

Through it all, Dean took care of Sam, holding him when painkillers gave him no relief, when the world was literally burning around him. He'd never said a negative word about what Sam had done, just continued his trademark sarcasm, despite the palpable fear and his own exhaustion. He took care of Sam until he dropped, slumped over in a chair or flopped over his bed.

Everyone, even the wise Bobby Singer, thought Sam and Dean's love was some magical, divine connection that was inexplicable, as it was rare. Sam knew better. It was forged out of dogged years of battling evil, watching your only and literal brother in arms cheat death time after time. It was toughened by inexplicable tragedy and loss. It was absolutely neccesary, and sometimes the only reason for survival. Their love was snarled and griseled and indestructible, because it had to be.

It was what powered Dean through 40 years of Hell. It was what pulled Sam from an eternity of Heaven.

Sam wasn't worthy of that love anymore.

Sam leaned against the Impala, dark glasses over his eyes. The long sleeves of his shirt covered the tell-tale webbing of chainlink scars that earned him abhorrence among angels and admiration among demons. With that black-eyed respect, he could walk a fine line, a tightrope between Heaven and Hell. Hunters believed that Sam Winchester had finally gone darkside, and the gossip crossed over to the supernatural side. No one who knew the truth bothered right it. Because Sam could infiltrate nests, killing the clusters of demons that rose to celebrate their father's resurrection, and kill Dean. Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder as he left the motel, flipping off the oblivious cops in the front of the building. Sam wordlessly climbed into the Impala and folded his long and lean frame into the passenger seat. Dean tore away from the house as the windows shattered and fire licked outward, tasting the air.

Dean whooped, high on adrenaline of their latest police evasion and the rumble of the Impala. He found joy in whatever he could. Sam, felt the same endorphins, but he was quieter now, all emotions turned inward. Dean didn't seem to mind, he was loud enough for the both of them, but he called him "Terminator" and "Arnie" whenever Sam got too quiet.

They tore out of the countryside, and drove through the dark until they hit moonless coast. Sam took watch while Dean slept, shotgun over his shoulder, sigils on the windows. His fingers slid under the seat, brushing the simple tin box and he pulled it out, rifling through what once were scavnenged treasures from the fire, but were now gut-wrenching reminders of who he was and what'd become. He fingered the singed, lacy garter Jess had worn at a Stanford formal, remembering her silver dress, and the sparkle in her eye when she saw him in his tuxedo. He brushed his fingers over the marbled beads that were once a bracelet. She bought it for him during a trip to South America.

Sam could barely remember that person anymore. The guy who had mastered most weapons by seventeen, but couldn't talk to a pretty girl without blushing. The guy who could stupidly thought evil would remain in the shadows and the hunters, the only uncles he'd ever had, would keep it in check. That Sam seemed lifetimes away, a vague mirage. He was barely human now. He could smell demons approaching, see their true, profoundly ugly faces. If he got angry, his eyes filled with darkness tinged with red, and he knew—from Bobby's horror-struck reaction—that his eyes were demon-black. Sam could control his telekinesis like a third hand. But his hands shook when he drew devil's traps or handled holy water, belying the evil inside of him. Sam closed his eyes, hating himself so much that he burned and choked with it. He wished he find a spell and go back to that horrible night in Cold Oak , die again and stay dead. Or maybe back to the night he'd left for Stanford, but instead he'd get off the bus and continue hunting.

"Stop it, Sam," Dean mumbled from the back seat. "Your brooding never fixed anything."

The despair was monstrous, the only thing he couldn't kill, and in the quiet, still moments, he couldn't escape it. Sam packed away his trinkets, making a mental note to burn them later. "Neither did denial," Sam said gruffly.

"I don't need to hear it. I lived it."

Sam squinted to see Dean's face in the rear view mirror. It was lighter now, the air grainy the burgeoning light. Darkness abating.

"I killed a woman," he blurted out. "..she was possessed, but the demon went…AWOL, hid inside her head somewhere…but I let it happen anyway, then I drained her like a juicebox. She was a nurse. She had a family."

Dean clenched his jaw, chin trembling. "That all?"

The love Dean had for Sam wasn't fair. Dean would never give up on him, and the notion that was once comforting and fortifying was now terrifying. Sam was at least part evil, and now that he was dedicated to protecting his brother, a large part of him was terrified that dark part of him would overtake him completely. Dean deserved better.

"Why are you acting like you don't care?"

"Because in the grand scheme of things, it's not important. Nurse Nancy was possessed and hovering around _babies_. Whether the thing was dormant or not, we killed possessed humans all the time. What matters is figuring out how we're going to end Lucifer forever. I can't think about anything else than that, Sam."

"I should disgust you."

"You don't."

"You should hate me."

"I can't."

"Why NOT?" Sam's voice rattled inside the car, and he felt the crackle behind his eyes, and the heat flushing his cheeks. He groped for his sunglasses.

"Because that's what they want! Our entire lives have been some giant cosmic joke. Don't you get that? I was up in Heaven's Moonbounce of Doom and Zachariah laid it all out for me. The other side has been trying to pull us apart for years, and when they do, evil wins a little bit more," Dean's eyes flashed in the twilight. "Sam, and as much as I hate what you did, as much as I want to kick your ass, you're still my brother. And I love you. And that's why I can still fight. That's what we're fighting for!"

"It can't be that simple."

"We're staring down the end of the world, dude. Yes, it can."

"You're such a jerk," Sam said fondly.

"I'm adorable," Dean grinned obnoxiously, moving to the front seat. The world may be ending, but Dean would never change. Sam found an unbelievable amount of comfort and encouragement in that.

The sun rose. And they watched it side by side. Sam's breath caught at the sight of a glittering white beach, milky sunlight slicing through ivory clouds. Sam slipped off his sunglasses, knowing the sight and suddenly energized that that tiny piece of serenity could still be found in the midst of such a bleak reality. The sun was rising on a day that decidedly wasn't Judgement Day, and Sam drew strength from that. He'd have another day to save lives, erase his sins, and love his brother.


End file.
